


Flowers and Knives

by quartzguts



Category: Violet Evergarden (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, just a little dark, ok its pretty dark but thats to be expected of this series, set immediately after gilbert takes her in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 11:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17243621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartzguts/pseuds/quartzguts
Summary: Her name is Violet, after a flower. Their first week together is the hardest.





	Flowers and Knives

**Author's Note:**

> The implied sexual assault warning is for a single line, nothing explicit.

Her eyes are a brilliant blue, her hair golden although matted and tangled. When Gilbert holds her close, her body is warm despite the cold of the room. She looks up at him, and her eyes reflect the lights of the hallway. Her face is absolutely expressionless, mouth ajar as if she wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say.

Gilbert isn’t surprised by Dietfried’s cruelty, although he wishes he was. The young woman shifts in his arms. He realizes with a start that she’s brought her hands up to clutch at his uniform lapels. Her blunt nails dig into his skin through his clothes, firm and desperate.

“I’ll take her,” he says firmly, glaring up at his older brother. Dietfried smiles mockingly. The young woman - no, girl, she’s too young to be considered a woman - curls into him and closes her eyes.

Dietfried looks intrigued by the display, and Gilbert feels an overwhelming urge to get her away from him. He pulls her to her feet and guides her towards the door. She makes it a few steps out of the bedroom before collapsing. Gilbert shouts in surprise and throws his arms under her body, barely managing to catch her before she hits the ground. Dietfried saunters out behind them and remarks that she hasn’t eaten in days. Gilbert curses under his breath and hoists her up, disturbed by how light she is. Her hands grasp at his arms, and she stares at him with her blank, beautiful eyes.

He isn’t sure if she’ll understand, but he tries anyway. “I’m going to take you to the kitchen,” he says. “You need to eat.”

He might be imagining it, but she seems to nod. He takes her downstairs as swiftly as possible - taking care not to jostle her too much - to where the kitchen should be if his memory of the mansion’s layout is correct. He hasn’t been to Dietfried’s mansion in years, and for good reason.

The cook is somewhat shocked to see the young master’s brother in the kitchen, holding a girl in his arms no less. “She needs something to eat,” Gilbert says, shifting uncomfortably as the servant gives him rapt attention. “Something easy on the stomach. She hasn’t eaten in a few days. Water, too.”

“Alright,” the cook says, looking at them strangely, like she doesn’t know what to make of them. “Is porridge okay?”

“Yes, that would be perfect,” Gilbert says. The girl shifts in his arms and makes a small noise of discomfort. Her expression is still blank. When Gilbert starts towards the small table at the center of the kitchen, the cook swiftly pulls out one of the chairs and lays a clean cushion over the seat. Gilbert settles the girl in it as gently as possible as the cook returns to the stove. She sits at attention, despite the obvious drooping of her eyes. Each time she seems to nod off, she shakes her head to keep herself awake. Has she been refusing to sleep, too?

“This lady,” the cook says as she hovers over the stove, the sweet scent of syrup starting to fill the room. “She wouldn’t happen to be your bride, would she?”

“What?” Gilbert chokes. The sound makes the girl look up at him sharply. He shoves his hands into his uniform pant pockets. The age old embarrassing question in the midst of this horrific situation threatens to break his brain with the discomfort it brings. “No, of course not. I just met her.”

The cook sighs heavily. Her gaze is almost motherly as she clucks at him. “My apologies, child. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. And she seems a bit young, anyhow.”

“Yes, she probably is,” Gilbert replies. He can’t blame her for the question, since she was employed at the main house while he and Dietfried were growing up. He knows that the entire household has been waiting for either him or Dietfried to get married for quite some time now. They are eager to have little feet running through the mansion again, filling its empty halls with laughter. Their mother is the only one who seems to be content with the way things are, simply chuckling whenever one of their relatives or servants broaches the topic. As Gilbert looks at the girl, more alert now that she can smell the food being cooked only feet away from her, he wonders what his mother would think of her. What she would think of him and Dietfried, knowing that together they have ruined her life.

She barely moves. If he didn’t know better, Gilbert might think she was a porcelain doll. He tries to imagine her as a bride, as the cook suggested, but cringes at the discomfort the thought brings. She is tiny and pale, sinking into the dirty shirt Dietfried has dressed her in. Her eyes are as dead as ever. Gilbert has no idea how old she is. And she is now completely dependent on him, since Dietfried made her a soldier. _His_ soldier. Making her into a bride would be... well. He couldn’t even think about taking advantage of her in that way. Doesn’t like thinking about taking advantage of her in any way.

(He'll have to. She's a weapon now, as per the army's order. An emotionless tool to be exploited then thrown away when she's no longer of use.)

The cook hums as she spoons some of the porridge into a bowl. “Then, would this be the one I’ve been making all of those uneaten meals for?”

Gilbert considers the question for a moment. At least it seems Dietfried hasn’t been starving her intentionally. “Yes,” he decides, “yes, I think you’re right.”

“I see,” the cook says. “Quite rude, young lady.” She sets the steaming bowl on the table.

The cook steps back, watching the girl intently. For several tense moments, she does nothing. Perhaps the girl doesn’t know how to use the spoon resting in the bowl? But the glances she keeps throwing at it combined with the twitching of her fingertips makes Gilbert think she’s just shy.

The other option is that she is protesting her captivity by refusing to eat and sleep. Which is horrifying. Since the army has approved of the situation, there’s no way for her to escape it. She has to accept her fate, or she will die before she sees her first battle.

“Um, ma’am?” Gilbert says, addressing the cook. “Could you leave us alone? I think she’s nervous eating in front of a stranger.”

The cook takes a defiant pose, but gives in quickly to Gilbert’s pleading expression. “Oh, alright,” she says. “But you’re a stranger to her, too, remember? You only _just met her_ , after all!”

When she leaves, Gilbert looks nervously at the girl. She is watching him now, although her body is still angled towards the bowl. “You can eat now,” Gilbert says gently. “It’s alright.”

She doesn’t move.

Gilbert takes a seat beside her, and reaches for the bowl. Her hand shoots out, holding his wrist as it hovers over the porridge. The steam burns at his skin. “You don’t want me to take the food away?” Gilbert asks.

She doesn’t give him a reaction.

“You should eat. You’ll need your strength.”

Her eyelashes flicker, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips as her gaze falls to the bowl.

It’s enough to convince him that she is willing to eat, finally. He pulls back his hand, and she lets go of it easily. Then she takes the spoon in her hand and lifts it to her mouth.

“Wait -” Gilbert tries to say, but then the spoon is in her mouth and she winces from the heat. She stubbornly swallows the hot porridge. Then she opens her mouth and pants.

Gilbert is dumbstruck for a few moments, before he pushes the glass of water towards her. “This will cool your mouth down -” he stutters, and she downs half the glass before he finishes speaking.

She scoops up the next spoonful and regards it suspiciously. “You should blow on it,” Gilbert says, “to cool it down.”

She doesn’t seem to understand, so Gilbert leans in and blows cool air over the the porridge. The steam subsides a bit, and she seems less uncomfortable when she swallows it.

They do that until the bowl is empty, and then Gilbert gets up and serves her another. This time, she blows on the food herself, while Gilbert refills her water glass.

Her eyes are a bit clearer when she looks at him again. Her expression couldn’t be called a smile under any circumstances, but compared to what she looked like before, it certainly seems like one. That such a basic act of kindness could elicit such a reaction is unreal. A sharp pain - made of guilt and regret and protectiveness - seizes Gilbert’s heart, like she has just stabbed him in the chest. He has a feeling it’s not the first time he’s going to feel like that because of her.

-

At first, she refuses to be apart from him for even a few minutes at a time. She stares suspiciously at anyone else who comes near her, or him. Gilbert notices that she is particularly wary of men, and curses whatever trauma stole her ability to trust in others.

The only people she seems to be okay with are himself and Dietfried. And Dietfried sees her as nothing more than a tool, so Gilbert isn’t willing to ask him to watch her whenever he needs to do something on his own. Like sleep. Or use the restroom. Or attend meetings where he’s told just how extraordinary this girl is at fighting.

He doesn’t believe it until he sees her in action with his own eyes. Gilbert’s superior officer orders that he bring her to the training grounds one morning, and she stuns everyone there. Drill after drill, fight after fight, she brutally takes down men twice her size, throwing them down and knocking them over. They bring out prisoners of war for her to fight next, and Gilbert tells her to fight a little harder, as instructed, and then she’s breaking bones and knocking out teeth. He calls an end to the training not long after that.

Claudia Hodgins catches his eye from across the grounds. There is disbelief in his pale eyes, mixed with just a little bit of fear. Gilbert smiles at him weakly, and earns a small wave in return.

He turns to the girl and wipes a smear of blood off her cheek. It’s not hers. “You fight pretty fiercely,” he murmurs to her. She perks up at the sound of his voice. “Where did you learn all that?”

She stares at him, blank, and Gilbert realizes that her eyes haven’t changed at all since he fed her porridge two nights ago. A cold chill spreads through his veins. It wasn’t ferocity that she was showing earlier. It was efficient, emotionless violence. Fighting without reason or worry. As cold and clockwork as a weapon.

Gilbert reaches for her hand and clutches it in his own firmly. Her fingers twitch against his. He swears that someway, somehow, he will get her out of this.

Next is firearm practice. The girl is given a gun by a soldier who tries to smile at her kindly, but is clearly intimidated by her cold glare. Some of the soldiers around them are clearly disturbed by the sight of a child in military uniform, while others just look at her approvingly. Pleased. The same way Dietfried looked at her when he called her a tool for the purpose of war. Gilbert memorizes all of those men’s faces and reminds himself to never leave her alone in their company.

She is an excellent markswoman, it seems. Although the recoil from the gun’s fire shocks her the first few times she fires it, she quickly adapts. Soon she is hitting every stationary target, then every moving one. The accuracy of her firing, the speed of it, is incredible. Gilbert’s heart sinks low in his gut. If she had just been remarkable at hand to hand combat, but poor with using weapons, he might have been able to convince his superiors to rescind their order. Not anymore.

Claudia walks up to him. “Who is that girl?” He asks quietly. There isn’t a trace of his usual cheerful disposition in his voice. “Is she a prisoner of war?”

“No,” Gilbert replies as evenly as possible. “At least, I don’t think she is. Dietfried… gave her to me. As a weapon. He didn’t say where she was from.”

“Huh.” The response is mechanical. Forced. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like this… sort of thing.”

“No, I don’t,” Gilbert says. “Neither do you.”

Claudia looks at him with wide eyes full of uncertainty and pity. “This is an order from above, isn’t it? I can try to talk to them. Convince them to let her go.”

“Thank you,” Gilbert breathes. He knows it won’t do any good. This is above Claudia’s rank. Still, it’s nice knowing he has a friend looking out for him. Maybe he can ask him to watch the girl sometimes. Social interaction with people other than himself would be good for her.

Claudia gets sent to the opposite front of the war two days days later. Gilbert is alone with her again. He knows it won’t be good for either of them.

-

The day after Claudia ships out, Gilbert manages to convince his superiors that the girl needs rest. She had trained with the other recruits all day yesterday, and although she hadn’t complained, by the end of the day her arms were shaking and her breath was heavy. Although her fighting skills are great, her endurance has room for improvement. She’ll do well with a day’s rest. Gilbert could use one, too. He didn’t think he could handle watching her fight again. At least, not until he’d had time to steel his stomach and prepare for it.

They retreat to Gilbert’s office to escape the stares of the soldiers and nurses at the camp. It takes some time, but the girl eventually starts to relax enough to look around the room as Gilbert idly sits by and lets her do as she pleases. She is now poking at some of the knick knacks on his desk, occasionally picking one up to inspect it. He smiles, pleased to see she still has some childlike curiosity in her.

She picks up a book, heavy and leather bound, with frayed edges and a worn cover, and holds it carefully. She peels back the cover and flicks through the pages. Gilbert has learned, over the past five days, how to read her almost-expressions better. The slight furrowing of her eyebrows and purse of her lips means she’s puzzled.

He walks over to her and peers at the book she’s holding. It’s an old title detailing various military conflicts from previous centuries. Gilbert had always believed that studying past victories (and defeats) would improve his own strategies, so he had quite a few books on the topic lying about. He’d been reading this one earlier and had forgotten to put it away.

“Are you interested in the book?” He asks gently.

The girl looks up at him, confusion deepened by his question.

“It’s about military history,” he continues. “Can you read?”

The open stare he gets in response is as good a “no” as any.

He takes the book from her, guides her over to the small couch beside his desk, and has her sit next to him. He’s about to start reading aloud, when the girl kicks out her legs slightly. They beat against the couch softly, with a distinct rhythm. The childish display of boredom jars him enough to remember that this girl is too young to be reading about war. Even if she’ll have to fight in one soon.

He clears his throat and throws a glance at his bookshelf. There is a brightly colored book of fables nestled between the history texts and novels. He quickly grabs that one and sets the history book aside.

“We’ll read this one,” he says. The girl doesn’t argue.

He reads to her slowly. As the story unfolds, he expects to see her eyes following the pictures on the pages. Instead, she’s glaring at the words with all her might. It occurs to him that she might be lost, so he points his finger to the word he’s reading.

She immediately shoots out her hand to point at it as well.

“That’s ‘princess’,” Gilbert says. “See? P-R-I-....”

He trails off because the girl is still glaring at the word. Her finger clumsily traces one of the letters; it’s ‘e’. He hasn’t gotten to it yet.

His heart sinks. Of course she doesn’t know her letters. Obviously. But would that be enough to cause such confusion?

“This is…” he starts. “You know what this is, right? A book.”

Another blank stare.

“The symbols on the page are letters. They represent certain sounds. The letters combine to make words.”

Understanding lights up her face. Gilbert pats her head affectionately while his hearts sinks even lower than before.

-

It’s been seven days, and Gilbert still can’t come up with a name for her. He needs to, since she hasn’t indicated that she has one at all. She’s taken to standing at attention at all times, her military uniform complimenting the solid stature. The fabric almost engulfs her, since it’s made for a man twice her size.

She’s made some progress. She accepts meals easily now, and has no problem eating among strangers. Sometimes, when she’s bored, she’ll pick a book and give it to him to read to her. Despite those improvements Gilbert still can’t convince her to speak. He’s starting to think she might not know how to.

They’re standing outside, on a beautiful day when her hair is shining gold under the sun and her eyes are as deep and endless as the ocean. An equally beautiful flower, elegant and refined in ways the girl is not, is growing near the edge of the yard. A simple poem that Gilbert read long ago flutters through his mind.

_Roses are red._

“Violet.”

_Violets are blue._

“Your name is Violet now.”

She says the first words she might have ever spoken then. Forming the sounds clearly takes effort, but she isn’t deterred. When she says “major,” the knife she’s lodged in Gilbert’s heart jerks again.

Her name is Violet, after a flower. And a poem. Gilbert knows she’ll grow into it, one day.


End file.
